


Floor 6

by NerdyMind



Series: 3k Puzzle Challenge Winners [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, New York City, Praise Kink, au sherlock, paint in places paint probably shouldn't be, painter!john, painter!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes works at the Guggenheim in NYC as a Restoration Artist where his eye for detail and respect for classic styles has given him quite a reputation.  As an art snob.  John Watson is a newly discovered modern artist exhibiting at the MoMA who prefers his work a little more.. messy.</p><p>Obviously this can only end in snark and sex.<br/>___________<br/>Fic is a gift for <a href="http://ireneholmes.co.vu/">hauntedbatch</a> who was one of three winners in my 3k puzzle challenge.  Her prompt was <i>painters and perhaps nude modeling johnlock</i> so here's what my brain did with that. <3  I hope you enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue #1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [longlivethefangirls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/longlivethefangirls/gifts).



In the basement of the Guggenheim sits three desks side by side. Simple black letters on the door let visitors know this is the Restoration Department. Tonight there is only one desk still covered in photos and illumination. The thin, pale figure hunched over his work is trying desperately to ignore two coworkers turned moths flitting about and pestering him.

“You have to see this guy’s stuff, Sherlock. It’s amazing. Come with us after work, please?” the young woman leans against her darkened desk, twists a stray auburn strand and pulls her softest puppy dog eyes. A tiny huff of air carries over a whining plea as she bites her lip and waits.

Sherlock doesn’t even look up. Dark curls stick wildly from the pinched elastic of his goggles. Deft fingers continue to trace over scattered photographs as his eyes dart between them, searching for minute changes. “I don’t do the MoMA, Hooper. It’s not my… aesthetic.” He waves the woman off without a glance, hoping his coworkers will get the message and leave him to his work.

Molly Hooper is not a quitter. She persists. “Come on, Sherl--

“Do not call me that.”

“Sherlock, sorry. It has to be tonight. Look, Mike said he could sneak us upstairs a few minutes for a quick peek before the opening this weekend,” Molly looks past the stubborn brunet and gives a slouching older man her most pleading glance. No sense letting these soft brown eyes go to waste.

“She’s right, mate,” the grey-haired man jumps in. Shifting from his own desk to stand in front of Sherlock’s lamp and cast a shadow across his workspace. “I’ve heard nothing but good stuff. Mike handpicked him. And you know he doesn’t just let anyone show.”

“Greg, move,” Sherlock groans but the older man pretends not to hear him. “Fine, if I say yes will you two bugger off?” The young man slips his magnifying goggles off with a snap and blinks away exhaustion, waiting for a reply. Secretly thankful for the interruption.

“Yes,” the conspiring duo answers in tandem, with matching crossed arms and nods.

“Fine,” Sherlock cedes, glancing up for a fraction of a second to flash the fakest of forced smiles.

“Yes!” Molly screeches in triumph, shaking Greg’s elbow and dragging him bodily for the exit. “Seven pm, 54th Street fire door. Don’t be late.”

***

Just after six, Sherlock locks up and exits the Gugg, his home away from home going on fourteen years now. He walks to the M1 stop before glancing skyward, checking his phone and deciding he has enough time to walk instead. After the failed attempt at Googling the mystery artist the moment Molly and Greg left him, he’s a bit peeved. John Watson. No pictures of the man could be found but Sherlock has a pretty decent idea based on the few snippets he could find of his available work. Mr. Watson is what some disdainfully refer to as a “scribble trash” modern artist. Focused more on emotional expression rather than measured technique. The equivalent of new money in the art world; undeservedly famous. Sherlock sighs to himself, dreading the paint splatter mess that surely waits for him in Midtown. He is in no mood to play nice today. Central Park, he decides, is the perfect distraction.

Thirty plus block later, he exits the park, mood a bit uplifted by a delightful family of squirrels who decided to follow him and three friendly dogs who were more than happy to let a stranger pat their bellies. Sherlock actually manages a genuine smile for Mike when he arrives waving in greeting. A stubby little man in a smart grey suit and pale pink button up waves back. He is melting in the sun and ushers Sherlock back into air conditioned darkness quickly. “No idea how you swan about in that black wool coat when it’s the middle of August,” Mike laughs. The museum is still open to the public but certain exhibit areas are closed off with polite signs and less polite security staff. Mike flashes his ID and directs Sherlock ahead of him. Once inside the back elevator, he presses their destination floor, humming as the doors close.

“Sixth floor?” Sherlock stares at the glowing numeral expecting an explanation.

“He is something… special,” Mike says beside him. “You’ll see.”

The elevator opens to a large exhibition space cluttered with workmen and half revealed paintings. The cacophony of hammers and drills echoes through the hall and Sherlock pauses just outside the elevator to take in the scene. The din of construction falls into his subconscious as he spots the back wall. Sherlock has to stop breathing and blinking to take it all in. Before him, amidst the drop cloths and tape is a giant canvas work almost ceiling to floor and painted in every possible hue of blue known to the human eye. Staring at it he finds himself wondering if there were undiscovered shades created just for this work. Geometric shapes previously unexplored. He has trouble focusing on the piece as a whole because every inch of it begs for his attention. His eyes strain, storing details, mapping and logging the piece away into his Mind Musée when a loud clatter to his right finally pulls his gaze away and Sherlock finds himself alone. Mike having crossed the room to yell at someone about light installations.

Turning about he finds the identifiable backs of Molly and Greg standing in the next wing whisper arguing next to a red sculpture. The work looks like melted wax but is most likely painted metal, if Sherlock’s expertise can be trusted. Glancing back at the blue marvel he crosses to the whispering pair, suddenly doubting himself as their conversation grows audible.

“It’s wood!” Molly whispers a bit too loudly, obviously distraught with Greg’s inability to read a simple placard.

“So it is,” he agrees begrudgingly with a shrug.

“Wood? But how-- I mean. Wood?” Sherlock’s voice makes them both jump.

“Sherlock!” Molly beams, turning to greet him. “So glad you made it. Impressive right? I told you he was one of a kind. Didn’t I, Greg?” the brunette beams and elbows her partner in the ribcage. Greg blushes and runs a nervous hand across his neck.

“Yeah yeah, you’re a genius. And I’m starving. Can we go now?” Greg asks a spot over Molly’s shoulder.

They leave, hand in hand, giggling about a lost bet and Sherlock can no longer be bothered to listen. His attention falls back to the not-wax not-metal sculpture. The shade of red is brilliant where it catches light but dark enough in the shadows to be mistaken for black.

“Simple acrylics, if you’ll believe me,” came a voice behind him. Turning, Sherlock finds a medium height man. A faded Ramones t-shirt stretched across broad and tanned shoulders. His torn jeans are well worn and covered in layers of paint. Sherlock pulls his eyes forcefully away from the waistband of that sinful denim and snaps up to a full head of shaggy blonde hair peppered with the first signs of middle age distinguishment, same for the scruff dusting his chin and cheeks. The man’s eyes are made of almost as many shades of blue as the painting beside them and Sherlock finds his entire vocabulary has abandoned him. “John Watson,” the man offers with a smile and an open palm.

“Yes, right, hello,” Sherlock stammers, taking the offered hand for a genial shake. His skin is calloused, soft and so very warm and Sherlock is sad to pull away his own clammy, pale appendage. He’s suddenly regretting his decision to wear three layers of black this morning. “Forgive me, Mr. Watson, I am Sherlock Holmes. Acquaintance of Michael Stamford.”

“Ah! Good ol Mike. Snuck you in here did he? Call me John, please,” John laughs and claps a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as if they have been friends for years. And for a short while it is. Easy for them. John explains his techniques. Sherlock listens, rapt and attentive as they circle around the exhibit space. That is, until they arrive before a purple and green monstrosity which turns Sherlock’s insides.

“It’s looks like a festering bruise,” he cringes. Nose scrunching up in disgust.

“Right you are,” John seems pleased, smiling broad and toothy until he sees Sherlock’s face. “Wait, what’s wrong with it?”

“Art should be pleasing to the viewer, John. This evokes nothing even remotely close to pleasure. Nothing I could even pretend to call beauty.”

The shorter man grows visibly angry. Pacing before the painting while he gathers his thoughts. He doesn’t stop to wonder why after five years of critics and commentary he’s let this one man get under his skin. But he has. Displeasing Sherlock has broken something in him and John’s voice is barely a whisper when he drops his head and sighs, “Listen, you just don’t get it.”

“I don’t--” Sherlock sneers, his ego ruffled. He turns to the large painting behind them. “Let’s see here. The blue one.”

“The blue one?” John bites the inside of his cheek, fists clenching in agitation as he looks back up, not quite ready to stand still and listen to someone insult one of his more personal pieces. But Sherlock is already across the room, pulling aside the remaining drop cloth and flipping a wall switch to illuminate the display. An empty placard beside the painting is tagged with a post-it that simply reads _Blue #1 Watson, J. H_.

“Blue number one,” Sherlock reads, then steps away turning his back to John. “Painted for your father, Navy Captain lost at sea when you were very young. I would suspect you are named for him but more likely your middle name given that you’ve kept the initial as part of your signature. Now, you planned and painted this all in one sitting. So, a sentimental date then. His birthday.. no, this painting is devoid of joy, ah, the day his ship went down. You lie on your back just.. here... closed your eyes and imagined what it must have looked like to drown, slowly sinking into the Atlantic. That’s where all these shadows and light sources come in, they are the receding waves.” The taller man swishes back around, coat twirling about in triumph as he waits for the inevitable backlash.

“How--” John stares between the smug ass and his painting, “No one’s ever put that together. I haven’t even told anyone.”

“I am not anyone,” Sherlock agrees carefully. Still unsure if and when John is going to raise his voice.

“You’re amazing,” John says instead. And those eyes light up, reflecting every shade in his masterpiece and Sherlock forgets himself for the second time.

“I wouldn’t--” he begins.

“Dinner?” John interrupts.

As if on cue, the main house lights begin to switch off and Mike’s voice booms from the back directing everyone to leave for the evening. Sherlock’s face breaks out into a full grin and he decides to see what it feels like, jumping in and drowning. “Starving.”


	2. Honeybee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dating bit, the smutty bit and the fluffy one.

John recommends a place just a few blocks over called The Smith. A posh little American Bistro which Sherlock has never heard of, but in New York knowing every restaurant is unheard of so his ego only takes a light bruising. The walk to Second Avenue is short and passes in comfortable silence as both men are observers; watching the passing crowds and architecture while they get closer to the water and further from tourist spots. It’s late when they arrive and the restaurant’s atmosphere is intimate with only a handful of staff and guests remaining. Taking a table by the large front window, John pulls a chair out and offers a hand for Sherlock’s coat.

“Oh, it’s a proper date then is it?” Sherlock laughs but hands the shorter man his black wool behemoth of a jacket and settles into the offered seat.

“Only if you want it to be,” John teases, settling the jacket upon an empty coat hook beside him before taking his own chair. Inside he’s screaming _Please, please want it to be_ but his face remains calm, in control.

“Let us let dinner decide, shall we?” Sherlock smiles, opening the wine menu to hide his rising flush. He is thirty two years old, but may as well be back in grade school peeping the rugby teams from behind the bleachers with how fast his heart is racing.

John matches his smile and waves the waitress over to place their order. Sherlock attempts to refute his choices but is dismissed with a look that says _shut up and trust me_. Over wine and appetizers, the familiar feeling of lifetime camaraderie settles between them and conversation is easy. Just like it was back at the museum.

“So,” John says, setting his empty glass back down and leaning in to lower his voice. “Sherlock Holmes, acquaintance of Michael Stamford, who are you?”

“John Watson, former roommate of Michael Stamford,” Sherlock teases and drains the rest of his own glass. “I believe I have answered that already. I work with Molly and Greg at the Gu--”

“Not that,” John interrupts. “I mean, who are **you** really?”

“Such as?”

“Hmm.. well back at the MoMA you kept saying you’ve filed my work away into your, what was it--”

“Mind Musée.”

“Yes, that. What is it exactly?”

“Bit of a mental mapping technique,” Sherlock answers, leaning closer to the patiently smiling man sat across from him. “Something my brother taught me as a child. The human brain is quite adept at storing information. You can mentally map out any data: visual, auditory, textual, all of it. And you assign everything a location in your mind so that you can never forget it. My brother uses his for boring bits of law and political tedium, but I chose to dedicate mine to masterpieces. Works of art I would prefer to never forget.”

“Amazing,” John’s face inches closer.

“No, John, it’s nothing really,” Sherlock tries to dismiss the praise but he can already feel his face heating up.

“It really is,” John beams, voice scratchy and tainted with emotion. “Extraordinary, really, truly extraordinary. And you put me, I mean, my work in there?” His nervous tongue slips out, licking a wet stripe in an attempt to alleviate the sudden dry mouth.

“You belong there, John,” Sherlock insists, suddenly aware of just how close they are as he watches that pink tongue dart out, wetting John’s lower lip. He can clearly see every shade of blonde and grey in the scruff around that perfect pink mouth. An awkward moment passes between them, both nervously avoiding staring at the other’s lips and failing miserably. Thankfully (or sadly depending on one’s perspective) the waitress arrives with their main courses, clearing her throat and the mood.

Dishes settled and peppered, they are again alone and sitting up straight. Sherlock eyes his salmon and farro suspiciously before reminding himself that tonight is about diving in and does just so with a sizable bite. What follows turns John on so instantly that he very nearly chokes on his own mouthful. The noise that escapes Sherlock’s throat is obscene. Deep baritone approval shaking through them both. “I will never doubt you again,” Sherlock promises around his moaning nibbles.

“Oh I’m sure you will, but that’s quite alright,” John smiles and refills his glass as a distraction. He reboots the conversation with a stab of his fork, “So, go on then, who else do you have filed away in your brilliant mind?”

“Hmm? Oh, I have always admired the analytical mind. Artists who use their knowledge of mathematics and sciences when composing. Da Vinci for example. But I also have wings dedicated to the likes of Dali and Monet.”

“Not much for the modern artists then?”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate those particular styles, I just, how can I explain--”

“It’s okay, Pollock isn’t for everyone, Sherlock. Art is subjective,” John shrugs, visibly disappointed but not pushing.

“But even the most abstract Picasso has form to it. Pollock is pure chaos,” Sherlock pushes on, determined to defend his taste.

“I know,” John agrees emphatically, “but that’s what I love about his work. There is no restraint. It’s pure freedom. You work in restoration, right? Well paintings like that, emotional work, you can’t restore them.” Sherlock harrumphs in noncommittal agreement and returns to his salmon.

John notices the shift in mood and decides a subject change is in order if he wishes to salvage the date not-date. “Changing the subject entirely, favorite.. animal?”

Sherlock laughs, broad grin breaking out around his last bite. “Hmm let me think. Haven’t been asked that since grade school, John. You go first.”

“Oh, sure,” John joins in the laughter, “Let’s see, I would go with dogs. Hands down, always loved a nice loyal dog. I had a..” John trails off, fully distracted by Sherlock rising to grab something from his coat pocket. Blue eyes trail down the taller man’s lean body, fully guided of their own pervy free will as every line of the bum framed by suit jacket pleats flexes and pulls beneath thin black trousers. John shifts in his seat once more, casually adjusting himself under the pretense of righting the napkin in his lap as Sherlock sits back down.

“Sorry,” the brunet apologizes once he notices John has stopped talking, “I just realized what my answer would be.” Sherlock hands the retrieved item across the table, a small moleskin. “Bees,” he offers as explanation, then gestures for John to open the notebook.

“Bees?” John opens the black leather sketchbook and finds the pages covered in beautifully detailed images of flowers, bees and beehives. Most of the sketches are in pencil, some gone over in ink, a few stark pages in full watercolor and dabs of honey colored pencil. He is speechless, pouring through the pages with his mouth hung open. “These are just.. wow. You have a wonderful eye for detail, Sherlock. Amazing.”

Sherlock flushes at the praise, throwing a dismissive palm up, “Just some silly sketches, John. My grandmother owns an apiary in Sussex and I spent many Summers there learning the trade. The Brooklyn Botanical Gardens is a poor substitute but I’ve found the honeybee population here quite fascinating. Those would be them,” he points to the page John is on, “the fluffy ones.”

“Thank you,” John says, he pulls the notebook close to his chest, reluctant to return the pictures to their owner. “Thank you for sharing this with me. I know how hard it is to let anyone see rough work.” He smiles and hands the book back across the table, fingers lingering to brush Sherlock’s open palm. “So, working on anything now?”

Sherlock sighs wistfully and shrugs. “My own work is on hold at the moment, a large restoration project landed on my desk last week. You know of the earthquake in Santiago? The Chilean National Museum--”

“Oh!” John says eyes lighting up in surprise, “you got the MNBA pieces? Wow you must be good if they trusted you with Caro.” Sherlock is visibly blushing and preening under the praise. John finally catches on, realizing how pink his companion becomes each time he compliments him. “What am I saying? You’ve been with the Gugg for over a decade now, of course you’re the best.” John watches silver eyes dilate and pink cheeks flush deep shades of red he’s never imagined before. _God he’s gorgeous_.

“John,” Sherlock straightens his posture and John almost jumps from his skin, terrified he spoke his last thought aloud. “Your exhibition opens in three days, but I noticed a blank wall, in the main gallery. Is that part of your, I mean if it is, I was just curious--“

“No, no I don’t do intentional blank space. I’m saving it for something new. Plan to work on the piece tonight actually, if you would like to come watch. If that’s not too forward I mean, you don’t--”

“I would love to.”

***

Sherlock follows the shorter man up 51st Street to a row of loft apartments with a wonderful view of Roosevelt Island. And if he takes the opportunity to watch a particular denim clad backside climb four flights of stairs, no one needs to know.

Once upstairs they are both panting, hearts racing with nervous energy. John internally debating over whether he washed the dishes that morning and Sherlock fidgeting in his coat, convinced at any moment he could either dissolve into a puddle or burst into flame. “Welcome,” John says with a dramatic flourish, shoving his door open and stepping aside, “to Chateau de Watson.” Sherlock laughs, the sweetest lilting giggle and steps inside. The dishes are done and John sighs in relief, covertly kicking a stray pair of red pants beneath the sofa as Sherlock turns about to survey the living space.

“Nice,” Sherlock crosses the room to take in the view of the harbor. “Very nice, John.”

“Thank you. I got a good deal from a friend of mine. Went to Columbia with Mike and me.”

“Columbia? Wait, of course, you were his roommate--”

“Yeah well, nothing to brag about,” John mumbles, speaking more to the floorboards than his guest. The university has been a sore topic for him with family and friends. A promising medical career flushed away for frivolous pursuits. “I didn’t graduate. Dropped out my second year to travel and paint.”

“John,” Sherlock turns to smile at the panicky blond. “You show at the MoMA in three days, special exhibitions floor set aside just for you and your work. I would say you made the right choice.” John can only answer with a matching smile. Too surprised to speak. It has been far too long since he heard a kind word regarding his life choices. “Now then,” Sherlock claps his hands together and squints about the rest of the room, searching. “Where is this new piece you’re working on?”

“Ah,” John snaps back out of his head to focus. “That’s just it, I haven’t started yet.”

“You haven’t-- but it’s in three days, John!”

“Trust me,” the painter says with a wink. He crosses the room to slip an arm around Sherlock’s waist and guide the taller man to a small green sofa. “Just have a seat here, remove anything you don’t want paint on.”

“Remove-- what?”

“Your nice coat, posh suit jacket. I get a bit messy when I work,” John answers over his shoulder. His face wears a devious cheshire grin as the taller man complies and turns to hang his coat and jacket by the front door. Sherlock nearly swallows his tongue when he turns around to find John barechested and unbuckling his belt.

“J-John! What are you--”

“Relax, just have a seat.” John nods to the sofa and Sherlock does as directed. His fingers fumble to unbutton his cuffs and roll the sleeves up on his shirt as he watches John unfold and shake out a drop cloth over most of the floorspace. Then, the older man pulls a large canvas from the corner and unrolls it atop the cloth. Lastly he wheels a small cart from the kitchen and sets it up next to the sofa beside Sherlock. Looking down, the brunet can see streaks of paint on the arm of the green furniture closest to the cart. He shifts over, slipping from his shoes and tucking socked feet up under his thighs. The cart is full of oil and acrylic paints. John apparently mixing colors on any available surface between them, with his fingers if the messy swirl patterns were any clue to his methods. Apparently reading his mind, John approaches the cart, looks Sherlock over then grabs two tubes of oil paint and begins swirling them with his fingers. The resulting color thick and golden.

“Fingerpainting? What are you five?” Sherlock teases but his eyes betray excitement.

“Just watch,” John winks for the second time this evening and Sherlock sighs knowing he is defeated. A million years from now and he will never be able to tell that face no.

John coats his hands with paint and settles on his knees at the center of his canvas. He starts simply, geometric shapes, hexagons but not quite hexagons. These are wobbly melting, like dripping wax. He mixes a deep rust color into his palette and adds shadow and depth to his emerging honeycomb. After the center is to his liking, John shifts to the far wall, wiping hands on his jeans, adding fresh stains. He mixes a new shade directly on the canvas this time, blues and soft pinks and purples. Pushing and molding the paint to every available corner until something almost resembling a sky emerges from the chaos. Sherlock stares enraptured by the rise and fall of strong shoulders. Eyes drinking in every inch of dancing muscle in John’s arms and back. Deft fingers play across the canvas, applying more paint, mixing and coaxing form from the madness. Neither man is certain how much time passes in silence, but John has painted half the canvas before Sherlock speaks.

“Amazing,” it is barely a whisper but deafening in the open room and John stops to look over his shoulder. He looks startled, as if he’s forgotten Sherlock was even in the room with him.

“Sherlock,” John says, slowly standing and wiping his hands on his jeans. “How much do you like those trousers?”

“Excuse me?”

“How.. much..,” John repeats himself slowly, taking a step towards the sofa with each syllable, “do you like those trousers?”

“I can replace them,” Sherlock looks up into fire blue eyes devouring him.

“Good,” John nearly purrs in delight, leaning down into Sherlock’s space. “Then take your ridiculous shirt off and come help me finish.” Sherlock answers the request by closing the space between them, grabbing John by the waist and pulling the shorter man down to his lap. The kiss is ferocious, teeth and tongues and nipping. John tastes as sinful as he looks, faint traces of wine still fresh in his warm mouth, scratching Sherlock’s face raw with the burning friction of scruffy nuzzling. Sherlock pulls them closer, hands gripping for hair and bum, whining when John pulls back panting to kiss down his neck. Rough fingers are gentle with him, unbuttoning and removing the black silk shirt, tossing it somewhere behind the sofa. Sherlock arches into John’s ministrations, keening and moaning as soft lips tease around each nipple in turn.

“John,” Sherlock pants. He is hard and uncomfortable and wanting more, so much more, grinding his hips up against the answering pulse in paint stained jeans. “John,” he repeats, hoping something translates.

“I know,” John says, sitting up. He stands and holds a hand out to help Sherlock up from the sofa. “Here,” he guides the taller man to the canvas. “Careful, it’s still wet. Don’t fall.” Sherlock can’t hold back the giggle that escapes. His legs are jelly, his mind still clouded from their kiss, and this madman expects him to have control over his motor skills. At the center of the painting, John kneels and looks up at Sherlock through near transparent lashes. Sherlock is achingly hard now, hips rocking in desperation for contact with that mouth, pink tongue darting out to lick kiss bruised lips. John obliges and nuzzles the bulge before him, pulling deep groans from the taller man until Sherlock is begging incoherently.

“Please,” he says. John opens the button and zip, gasping to find the straight laced, posh suited Mr. Holmes is wearing nothing beneath. Sherlock’s pink cock pops out, eager and dripping for him. Holding the brunet’s hips, John licks and teases the head. Lapping at the slit and frenulum until Sherlock is moaning. “Please,” he whines again. The gentle tease of rough hairs from John’s beard is driving him mad. “Yes, oh god yes,” Sherlock adds as John swallows him down. Naughty fingers leaving purple and pink handprints on Sherlock’s backside as the shorter man pulls him deeper still.

John makes short work of Sherlock’s long prick, sucking him hard and fast, ignoring the pleading tugs to his hair. He holds fast and swallows him down until Sherlock is groaning in pleasure and toppling them both. John cradles the man through his orgasm, peppering him with messy kisses, running rough hands through dark silky curls. He gently kisses the red patches of Sherlock’s flushed cheeks where John’s facial hair has rubbed him a bit harshly.

“John,” Sherlock laughs at his singular vocabulary. He rolls them over until John is pinned beneath him and dives for the blond’s zipper, finally divesting him of those fucking jeans. The pants beneath are soft purple cotton but Sherlock isn’t interested in admiring the shade and quickly pulls them aside for the throbbing prick beneath. “Gorgeous,” he breathes. John’s cock is shorter than his own but thick and heavy in his hands. He begins to scoot down to reciprocate when John stills him.

“No, your hand is good, I want… I want you up here,” John pulls Sherlock back down to him, chest to chest, lips back on lips. The second kiss is slower, sweeter. A dance of tongues tasting every inch of each other. Sherlock’s hand trapped between them tightens and John moans low and deep. He is already so close. Just a few strokes is all it takes and he spills between them.

Sherlock attempts to stand, thinks better of it, and crawls to the sofa for his shirt. Wiping them both and tossing it aside with his ruined trousers. John watches from the canvas, laughing. Sherlock’s dark hair is streaked with golds and pinks. John’s handprints all over him. Sherlock catches his gaze, looks down at them both, “Shut up.”

“This wasn’t what I meant by help me finish,” John teases, wiping a blue streak from Sherlock’s cheek and following his finger with a kiss. Sherlock pouts and attempts retaliation, dipping his hand into a wet patch of the canvas and spanking John’s thigh. The gold handprint left behind swiftly filling with pink flushed flesh and they are back to snogging in no time. When exhaustion finally takes them, John and Sherlock are both completely naked, covered in paint and curled into one another on the small sofa. It’s the best sleep either of them have had in years.

***

John is busy entertaining an important group of reporters and critics when Sherlock finally arrives Saturday evening. He takes the time to walk around the gallery alone and eavesdrop on some of the local commentary, knowing John will appreciate hearing some of the remarks when they get home later. Rounding the corner into the main showroom Sherlock freezes in place, mouth agape. There on the main wall is the mess they made together. Slowly, he drags his shocked frame to the wall placard, a tiny gasp betraying his stoic face.

_Honeybee   Watson, J.H. & Holmes, W.S.S.   oil on canvas_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this prompt. I just might have to revisit these guys again. <3 Thank you!


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